


All The Things I Deserve

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Brothers & Sisters
Genre: Angst, Explicit Smut, F/M, Fluff, IT'S TIME FOR OBSCURE CHARACTER LOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Obscure character love!! Zach left the Marine Corp with PTSD and a "place to sleep" problem.
Relationships: Zach Wellison x Reader, Zach Wellison x You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	All The Things I Deserve

[ ](https://ibb.co/f1Dw4s4)

The first time you see him, it’s your second volunteer shift at the soup kitchen. He sticks out in the line-up, tall, rangy,  _ young. _ His hair is rumpled and he wears a hoodie that has seen better days, a big duffle bag on his shoulder. It probably contains all he owns. His t-shirt and grubby jeans look slept in, and you wonder when he last knew a soft pillow.

When he reaches the front of the line, you look into his eyes; they’re deep brown and soulful, and he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach them. 

“Here you go. White or brown bread?”

His lips quirk. “If I say both, is that cheating the system?”

His voice is deep and husky-edged, just a kiss of Texas in the syllables. You put one of each roll on the paper plate, covering the brown one with a napkin. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Our secret.” This time the smile reaches his eyes and he gives you a nod before shouldering his bag and moving to sit and eat.

Your gaze strays to him now and then. He eats methodically, as if he doesn’t know when his next meal will be and wants to savour this one. You notice a swirling tattoo on his left hand, wonder about it. One of the times, after you’ve served the last patron, you catch him looking at you, and when your gaze finds his, he looks away, but you catch the tinge of pink on his neck.

The soup kitchen starts to empty out. You still have a bowl’s worth in your tureen, and after checking with the other staff, you empty the contents into another paper bowl and walk it over to the tall man with the soulful eyes.

“More?” you offer.

He looks at you with a second of suspicion before one corner of his mouth tips up into a hesitant smile. “Please.”

You stand awkwardly for a moment, and then make to leave, but the stranger gestures with his free hand. “Please, step into my office.”

You chuckle, sliding on to the bench opposite him as he continues to eat.

“Thanks. It’s been a while since I had something hot.”

Although your heart creaks with sympathy, you don’t offer any meaningless platitudes. Many of the men and women who used this service were veterans who couldn’t get any help from the overtaxed VA, unless they’d found themselves waist deep in drugs.

You offer your name, and say you’ve just started volunteering.

“I’m Zach. Zach Wellison.” He offers you his hand; his skin is tanned and clean, and you wonder where he’s washing himself. “Someone at the VA told me about this place, I thought I’d check it out. It’s my first time, so, thanks for being gentle.”

You find yourself chuckling at his joke, delivered in a voice that sends a little shiver of awareness up your spine.

Zach finishes the soup. “You, ah, need some help cleaning up? I think I can fit you into my schedule.”

His gentle, self-deprecating teasing opens another yawning crack in your heart. When he smiles, his hair falls into his eyes, and the sunkissed brown strands look touchable and soft. 

“Actually that’d be great.”

He scoops up the bowls and disposable cutlery. “My stuff’ll be okay here?” he gestures to the bag. It looks army-issue, nondescript, and probably contains all he owns in the world. You swallow back sympathy; because he’s likely a jarhead and he won’t thank you for tears. 

“Yep, it’ll be fine.”

Zach trails you out from the spartan dining area into the kitchen. The radio - second-hand, donated - aches with a soulful rendition of  _ Quiet Storm _ by Smokey Robinson, as one of the other volunteers, a sixty-year-old named Lorraine, washes the cooking dishes.

You pat her on the shoulder. “Take a break, I’ve got a new victim.”

Lorraine glances at Zach and a grin splits her face. “Well, well. Come on in. I’m gonna get a coffee and a doughnut.” She takes the gloves off and hangs them on the curved tap.

“Any particular order you want these done in?” Zach asks, taking the gloves and sliding them on. The bright yellow vinyl slides over his tattoo and for a moment you miss the little glimpse into his personality, however small.

“No, not really. I just try and stack them properly so they don’t topple over.”

“You got it, boss.” He tosses off a playful salute and you leave him to it, disappearing into the back office to report the figures of how many service users you’ve had today and what you’ll need to get from Costco for the week ahead.

“If only we had help to lug stuff,” Lorraine says from her seat in your miniscule office, her eyebrows practically in her hairline. “Someone strong, used to lugging around, I don’t know, a sixty pound pack.”

You cradle your head in your hands. The sound of Zach washing dishes diligently reaches your ears, along with the strains of  _ My Girl _ by the Temptations from the radio. “Lorraine. We have  _ less than _ zero budget.”

She clucks her tongue. “But we have plenty of space here and a fold out bed in the store room. Just saying.”

******

Thirty minutes later, you’re shutting the computer down when Zach appears in the doorway, all long limbs and tanned skin, a smile ghosting around his lips. “All dry. I, ah, wasn’t sure where stuff went, so I stacked it all on the counter. Wiped the oven down, too.”

A thank you dried up in your throat as you watched a bead of sweat make its way from his hairline down his jaw and into the neck of his faded grey t-shirt.

“You okay?” Zach asks.

You snap yourself out of the sudden fantasy of licking his neck. “Yes. Thank you. Um, Zach. I… Thanks,” you settle on. “We’re open tomorrow if you want to stop by.”

“I might just do that.” He throws you a real smile this time, and it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. It’s adorable.

You think about that smile, and about how the set of his shoulders was higher than when he arrived, all the way home.

*****

The next morning, you get up early for work, stopping for a coffee on your way by the little park near the soup kitchen. It’s Summer, but the morning still has a nip in the air, a little kiss of cold that makes you shiver just once as you sip your latte.

You walk past your favourite oak tree in the park, and just by glance, your eyes follow the darting path of a bird and you spy a familiar army-issue duffel bag at the foot of a park bench, and a body curled up on it, under a threadbare woollen blanket.

_ Zach? _

You approach slowly, but a twig cracks under your sneaker and Zach jerks upright, a baseball bat clutched in his fists. He lowers it when he sees you, muttering your name. “Jeez. I’m sorry. I…. in my previous life, being snuck up on usually meant death.” He sets the bat down, looks away.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I.. would you like a coffee?”

You watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips as his gaze strays to your cup.

“My treat, as a thank you for yesterday,” you barrel on.

That suspicious look sketches over his face again, and then he nods. “Sure. Thanks.”

“How do you take it?”

“Just black.”

You trek quickly back to the little coffee shop, get his order. You half expect him to be gone when you get back, but he’s sitting up, hoodie pulled over the back of his head to ward off the morning chill. 

You offer the coffee and a granola bar you picked up, a spur of the moment thing. He reaches out a hand, then pulls back. “What is that?”

“Breakfast.”

He scowls. “Listen, I don’t need a handout.”

“ _ Obviously,” _ you say, feeling like throwing the coffee in his stupid handsome face. You toss the bag with the granola bar on the bench, set the cup down. “Excuse me.”

You’re four angry paces away when he calls, “Wait.”

You hesitate, fully intending to carry on walking, but one look at the slump of his shoulders and the misery lined on his face stops you.

“I’m an asshole,” Zach calls to you. “Thank you. For breakfast. Sit with me, please?”

You hesitate a second longer. Something lost inside Zach calls to you, and part of you wants to give into it.

So you do, joining him on the bench; his makeshift bed. His back must be killing him. But you’re afraid that if he was suspicious of a  _ granola _ bar, that he’ll turn down your offer of a bed in the soup kitchen quarters, even if it’s in exchange for washing and cleaning.

“Military?” you ask when you sit, sipping your coffee.

“Semper Fi,” he says without inflection, digging into the granola bar. He eats that same methodical way, as if savouring every bite, unsure when the next one might come. “Marines.”

You try to picture him with a buzz cut; can’t. His tumble of brown-gold hair suits his face so well; you want to spear your fingers into it, feel its softness as you bring his mouth to yours-

“Sorry, what?” you ask, aware that he said something.

Zach brings the coffee cup to his lips. “I said, is the soup kitchen your main gig?”

“No. I’m an accountant, part time,” you smile, shaking your head. “Not what I had in mind when I was a little girl, dreaming of adventure and castles.”

Zach stares at the horizon for a moment, and you wonder what  _ he _ had dreamed of as a boy; if the Army and Marine Corp had always been on the cards for him. If he’d had a choice. And you want to know what choices led him here, living in a park, accepting food from veritable strangers.

“I guess things don’t always work out how we want, huh,” he says eventually.

“Guess not.” You check your phone and almost jump when you see the time. “I have to go. Will you… come by the kitchen later? We start serving at six p.m.”

This time, his smile warms his bottomless brown eyes, and it makes your heart lurch. “I’d like that.”

*****

The day ticks by irritatingly slowly. By the time the clock strikes five, you’re already packing your things, keen to get out of the door.

Lorraine greets you at the entrance to the kitchen. “Someone’s in a hurry,” she says with a little grin. You only smile in reply.

When you get to the office, a little note has been left for you. Julio, the manager you’ve been filling in for, will be back in a few days, recovered from his leg surgery. Your volunteer shifts will come to an end.

_ Zach. _

What would happen to him?

Maybe he had a home. A wife or girlfriend? The thought makes envy pool in your stomach, thick and hot.

You think of that little tattoo on his hand. You’d like to see those hands on your body, doing things that make you cry out his name.

Today it’s chilli that Lorraine has been cooking for over an hour. You stack up the flatbreads and set the rice in a warmer as the third volunteer tonight, Owen, unlocks the doors to the queue that never seems to get shorter.

After a half hour you start to despair of seeing Zach, but then he’s suddenly next in line, his hair a messy tumble over his face, a shy smile gracing his lips.

“Hi,” he says, softly.

“Hi.”

“Is it cheating the system to say that I looked forward to this all day?”

You put an extra ladle of chilli into his bowl. “I want to talk to you. After.”

Curiosity dances in his eyes and he nods. “I’ll be here.”

****

After the last service user trails out, Zach appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “Reporting for duty,” he announces huskily, and Lorraine, about to put on the vinyl gloves, holds them out to him, giving you a speaking look.

“Thanks, Zach,” you say, and mean it.

Lorraine points to the office, indicating she’s going to have her habitual after-shift coffee and doughnut. She closes the door and winks at you. You refrain from rolling your eyes.

“So, um,” you say, picking up a tea towel as Zach turns the water on, the hot spray filling up the sink.

“So?” he asks, those brown eyes meeting yours, and as usual, you get the impression he sees more than you wanted to show.

You worry the edges of the tea towel between your finger and thumb as Zach begins to wash one of the big stew pots, scrubbing at the residue of chilli sauce.

“I want to help you,” you eventually say.

He doesn’t look up from the pot. “If you’re going to say you have a friend at the VA, thanks, but you’ll waste your breath.”

The radio grumbles on behind you, playing  _ House of the Rising Sun _ by the Animals. “I…. was going to offer you accommodation here. In exchange for helping out. Just for a few days,” you add quickly, not knowing whether he wanted permanence. “Washing dishes, helping Lorraine and I with stuff. Picking up orders from Costco.”

The radio fills the silence and you watch Zach for a moment. Finally he meets your gaze. “Will you be here, at night? When I’m sleeping?”

You think of how he’d tried to attack you with the bat, when you’d found him this morning. “No, I won’t, but I’m not afraid of you, Zach.”

His gloved hand clenches on the washing up brush. “I’m afraid of what I’d do to you.”

You so badly want to go to him, wrap your arms around him, press your cheek to his back.  _ So badly. _ But instead you focus on drying the first few serving plates he’s stacked on the drainer. “Will you think about it?”

“Yeah,” he rasps huskily, and you think, that’s all you can do, for now.

Later, when Lorraine tosses you the keys to lock up, it’s almost full dark. Zach finishes putting the dried dishes and cooking utensils away.

“So, did you think about it?” you ask, gazing at his broad back, muscles delineated by the soft fabric of his t-shirt. You shut the radio off.

He glances out of the window. “How are you getting home?”

“I’ll walk. It isn’t far.”

He looks horrified. “You  _ walk _ home after ten p.m? Alone?”

“Well, I don’t drive, so-”

“I’ll walk you. Then I’ll walk back here to sleep.” His tone brokers absolutely no argument, and you let him walk with you to the big doors, locking up meticulously and then setting the (very low budget) alarm.

Zach has left his duffel bag in the soup kitchen, so he walks beside you with his hands in his hoodie pockets, half a foot taller than you. 

“I feel like it’s very unfeminist to admit this, but I do feel safer with you here,” you say, half-glancing at him.

Is it your imagination, or does he stand  _ ever so slightly _ taller at your words?

“I wish I’d known yesterday. I’d have walked you home then, too.”

You talk about nothing on the ten minute walk; your favourite films as children, how quiet the city seems sometimes, and your favourite pockets inside its busyness.

When you reach your building it’s full dark, and almost all the stars have winked into being, hung one by one by an invisible hand that painted the moon white. 

“Well, this is me. Thanks, Zach.”

He hesitates, and you see his gaze drop to your mouth. You go with it, with the unspoken romance of the night, and cup his bristly cheek, lifting your face to his.

He responds instantly, one arm banding around you as his mouth meets yours, hungry, soft, sweet. He tastes of tonight’s chilli and just a kiss of mint as his tongue dances with yours, and you hear a little mewl and belatedly realise it came from your lips.

“Come in?” you whisper against his mouth, looking up into the dark pools of his eyes, your body throbbing.

He hesitates; you feel his unsaid reluctance in the lines of his body. “I don’t want your pity,” he bites off eventually.

You slide your hands up his front, flip open the top button of his ancient plaid shirt. “Believe me, Zach. Pity is  _ not _ what I’m feeling right now.”

****

“Um, drink?” you ask, nervous as Zach’s gaze sweeps your apartment. 

“Sure.”

He doesn’t specify what he wants, and you only have tequila, tap water or orange juice, so you opt for a shot of tequila for each of you, and offer him one.

“Wow. The big guns, huh,” he says, and toasts you. You clink glasses and both down the alcohol, setting the glasses on the counter. “You haven’t changed your mind?” he asks, his husky voice so soft it barely reaches your ears. “Because I won’t-”

“No,” you say firmly. “I want you, Zach.”

His brow quirked up. “I’d ask what’s wrong with you, but that’d be a waste of time, so-” He lifts you up and turns you so you sit on the counter. You loop your arms around his neck, carding your fingers through his soft tumble of hair. 

“I shower,” he blurts out. “Got a friend - ex army buddy - who owns a gym.”

“I didn’t ask,” you smile.

“I know. But…. I wanted you to know.” He pulls you close again, his lips meeting yours, his facial scruff tingling against your super-charged skin.

His body is hard everywhere yours is soft, and you groan into his mouth. “Zach…”

“Just like that, baby,” he murmurs, nipping at your lower lip as he deepens the kiss. His hands stay chastely on your waist for moments that seem endless, until you grab one of them and bring it to your breast, internally begging him to get with the programme.

Zach growls low in his throat as he palms you, muttering  _ holy shit _ when your nipple goes immediately hard at the attention he bestows.

“More,” you demand, and he pulls up your t-shirt and unsnaps your bra, pushing aside the empty glasses to lay you back on the counter before he bends over you and feasts on your naked breasts.

You arch under him, the contrast between the cool counter and the heat of his mouth sending a shiver of delight and anticipation through you.

He scrapes your sensitive flesh with his teeth and you keen desperately, shoving at his button-down. He gets the hint and slides the buttons out of their eyelets as quick as he can, the flannel material whispering to the floor, and you greedily spread your hands over his back. “Zach.”

“I got you, baby.” He starts to work on your skinny-fit red jeans, unsnapping the fastening and rolling them down your legs. He gently takes off your shoes and your clothes puddle with his on the floor. “Right where I want you,” he croons.

You shiver as he kisses up each leg in turn, holding your thighs apart as he cruises closer and closer to his intended destination. Your muscles clench in the delicious taste of anticipation as his mouth hovers over you, and just as you think you might go mad from the whisper-promise of his breath on your skin, he comes at you with one, then two firm licks  _ right _ where you need him. Your breath whooshes out of your body as you push against his talented tongue, and the little growl from him when you do tells you he likes your taste; your responses.

You pillow your head on one arm and watch him for a moment, noticing that he keeps one hand on your thigh and starts using the other to palm himself.

“I want to touch you.”

He pauses in his ministrations. “Not yet.”

“Big bad marine in control?” you tease, but his eyes go hot and then he’s curling his tongue  _ right there _ , using two fingers to spread you open, and you come so hard you see stars, your body jerking against his mouth on the counter, the twin sensations of hot and cold doubling the orgasm. You clench your legs around his hips, and with a grin he kisses his way up your body, lifting you off the counter and walking you both to the couch. The soft leather is a relief to your back as he lays you down and strips off the remainder of his clothes, coming to lie atop you.

You wind your limbs around him, sighing his name into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

He nuzzles at your collarbone, dotting kisses over your skin, and then quietly mutters, “Fuck. I don’t have anything.”

“I thought you marines were always ready,” you tease, feeling the length of him, hot and heavy, on your belly.

“Hoo-rah,” he says weakly, and you both laugh, a mixture of humour and frustration.

“Oh, well. I’m sure there are other things we can do to pass the time.” You slide your hand down his body, cupping him intimately, and Zach groans deep in his throat. “Let me?” you ask, and he nods weakly.

“I’m yours to command.”

He rolls your bodies and you slip down his as he spreads his legs lazily. You eat him up with your eyes, drawing out his anticipation by kissing down his belly. His cock jerks impatiently and he sighs, long and low, when you lick across the head and then take him inside. flicking your tongue rapidly, learning the ridges and valleys of him.

“ _ Fuck, _ honey,” he grits out, threading the fingers of one hand thorough your hair, his hips trembling like he’s resisting thrusting into your mouth. You feel his legs tense up under you and you let your other hand play on his shaft, fisting him where your lips can’t reach. A strangled sound, almost like pain, escapes his lips. “Been…. Too long,” he bites off. “Gonna-” And he fills your mouth. You soothe him through the orgasm, licking up everything he has to give and then gently petting him until he palms your shoulder, shivering with the intensity of his climax and the oversensitivity.

You crawl up his body and he holds you close; you snuggle into the hollow of his shoulder, sleepy.

“Stay?” you ask.

He shifts underneath you, and your request hangs in the silence. You firm your lips. You’re a grown woman, you aren’t going to beg.

“I’d like that,” he answers, his low, husky voice already drowsy. You yank a couple of throws down from where they always hang, over the back of the sofa, and cover your bodies, limbs tangled languidly. And, you sleep.

  
  


******

  
  


Over the next few days, Zach settles into his new routine. He uses the bathroom at the soup kitchen to shower and shave, and although you miss his facial scruff, he looks brighter than when you first met him.

You steal kisses in between meal servings, and after hours one night, he memorably claims you against the desk (after a quick trip to the drugstore for condoms).

It all goes to hell when you arrive for an afternoon volunteering shift to find Julio at your desk -  _ his  _ desk again, you suppose - glowering at Lorraine.

When you appear in the doorway his ire shifts. “Has someone been  _ sleeping _ here?” he booms. “You  _ know _ we aren’t insured for that.”

“It isn’t her fault,” Lorraine starts, but you cut her off.

“I’m sorry, Julio. I offered the space to him. The VA couldn’t help, and-”

“ _ And _ we’re barely running as it is. If we’re found out… Jesus. We would be shut down by environmental health. Then where would everyone go to eat?” He bites your name off like a curse. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done here. Thank God you were here to take the reins when my knee gave out.” His hairline is sweaty, his shoulders stooped, and you think maybe he’s come back too soon. “But the last thing we need is some veteran bum being a liability on our insurance.”

Something creaks behind you, and your heart plummets. You know before you turn that Zach is standing a few feet away, and he’s heard it all.

He stalks into the office, grabs his duffel bag, doesn’t look at you. You know his pride won’t even let him speak.

And your heart falls to your ankles as he walks away, silent as the grave.

****

You hear through the grapevine that Zach is okay. You cut down on your volunteer shifts at the soup kitchen now that Julio is back. You miss Lorraine, but you don’t want to see Zach again if nothing’s going to come of it. You’ve gone too far to be friends. Every night you dream of his hands on your skin, his mouth licking up your slick, his laugh, the way his tea-brown eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

Lorraine’s friend has a son, Justin, who used to serve, and who took Zach in after treating him for a head injury. You’re happy that he’s found somewhere to stay and that he has a warm roof over his head. You just wish it was with  _ you. _

Life trundles on. A colleague offers to set you up on a date. You tell her you’ll give it some thought, but you don’t. Your heart halfway belongs to an ex-Marine with big, soulful brown eyes, messy hair and a husky laugh.

You miss the soup kitchen, but you don’t think you’ll go back, at least not more than to volunteer once a week. Lorraine always tries to keep you smiling with an off-colour joke or two, but you keep eyeing the fold-out bed, and trying to imagine where Zach is sleeping right now.

*****

A month later, you shrug your jacket on to leave work. The smell of rain hangs in the air; it’s gonna be a stormy night.

You wave goodbye to your colleagues and take the stairs to ground level, then skid to a stop when you see a familiar figure in the lobby, by the doors, chewing his lower lip, a spray of what look like pink and yellow roses one hand.

_ Zach. _

He’s clean shaven, his hair combed, and he’s wearing a leather jacket over a dark blue button-down and what look like new jeans.

You must make some noise, because he turns, and his face  _ lights up _ when he sees you. He calls your name, and you walk towards each other. You feel a little bit giddy, like you’re floating through a cloud.

“Hey,” he says, that husky voice slightly off kilter.

“Hey.” You shove your hands in your pockets, wondering what to say, clenching your hands into fists at the urge to touch him.

“I’m sorry about before. I should’ve stayed to talk to you. I’ve got a boatload of pride-”

“Really.”

He chuckles. “You’re interrupting my grand apology.”

You bite your lip, holding his deep brown gaze; eyes you want to look into forever. “Go on.”

“And my stupid ego got in the way of us. I missed you, so goddamn much. But I wanted to come to you with  _ something. _ So. I’ve got a job - a building manager thing. It’s a live-in gig, so I have a place, somewhere to call my own. Justin called in a favour at the VA, and next week I start therapy.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “I finally got over myself, because I  _ want _ you. And I want to offer you something real. I want to be worthy. Please, tell me it isn’t too late.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. Your heart is so full of this man.

“And.. I’d like to take you to dinner.” He offers the flowers, bites his lip shyly.

You bury your face in the blooms. “Thankyou.”

He tilts his head, smiling hesitantly. “Is that a yes, or..?”

You throw your arms around him, sinking one hand into his hair, pulling his face down to yours for a kiss, breathing in his scent that you missed so much. “Yes, Zach Wellison, I’d like to date you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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